Welcome to the Duelling Club
by KristieConspiracy
Summary: Time to duel! 1: High Hopes (Kodaline) [slight Dramione, muggle AU, post-apocalyptic AU]. 2: Meadows of Heaven (Nightwish) [largely implied Dramione, sci-fi AU, magic created by tech AU, implied Seamus/Dean].
1. Round 1: (ARTS) High Hopes

**Challenges:** CUtopia's _Duelling Club Competition (Round 1, Arts)_ on HPFC; Philaria's _85 Shades of AU Competition_ on HPFC.

**Characters:** Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger.

**Prompts:** **H**igh Hopes (Kodaline); **2. P**ost-Apocalyptic, **15. M**uggle/Non-Magical.

**Word Count:** 833

**A/N: **This was going to be at least 500 words longer, but I paused writing half way through and forgot what I was going to do. So have a change-of-heart instead of whatever self-destruction I was going for.

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><p><em>It's time to let go, go out and start again<br>But it's not that easy_

_**High Hopes **__- Kodaline_

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><p>If you were to imagine a broken world, you'd be halfway to picturing the reality of Draco Malfoy, former CEO of Malfoy, Inc. Imagine broken bottles in the lobby of every hotel, each room filthy with dust and dirt. The windows were not smashed, for no reason other than there was no point. Nobody liked the chain of high-end hotels. They didn't care when the exotic locales became wistful dreams, and cared even less when the local hotels went bust. They just didn't care.<p>

Draco's reality had been tainted with the dull haze of alcohol and its' poisoning. His hotels, for all their faults, have never been short on the only way to get that.

At first, he drank for something to do. He was the only person left in London, after all - or at least the only _civilised_ one. Of course Potter and his gang were somewhere, using whatever weapon they could get their hands on for sport and pathetic attempts at entertainment. They'd certainly stumbled upon a very drunk Malfoy more often than not. They would shake their heads and disappear back out in the dust of the half-gone city.

All of them, that is, except for the frizzy haired, meddlesome cow, Granger. It was as though the group only ever showed up to escort their 'friend'.

She never explained why she came, and she always disappeared by the time dusk fell, back into a city that was slowly caving to the whims of nature. In his drunken haze, Draco convinced himself of a thousand silly things: she wanted to watch him waste away. She wanted to ensure he remained drunk, that he sobered up, that he die from alcohol poisoning. She was a time traveller, using him to save the world. Or she was a witch, come to cast a spell on him.

Each was as ridiculous as the next, but somewhere along the way, he became lost in delusions. Maybe the alcohol toxicity in his liver had spread to his brain, maybe he had neural damage from falling down the hotel steps one time too many. Whatever the cause, he had become convinced that Hermione was his saviour, the one who would save him from his crimes - and, perhaps best of all, from himself.

Hermione the know-it-all reminded him of the world before it was broken. She invited ghosts into his mind by triggering a sense of security in him, and people who were long gone drifted through his dreams; his parents, dead by execution on the cusp of societal collapse. His friends, people he barely knew, people he didn't; they were all paraded before him: _look at me, look what the world has been cost_.

Slowly, colour seeped back into his sepia world. The greenery that had taken over London transitioned from limp and dead, choking the city, to vibrant and lush in a manner that entranced him. The stained glass windows of the church he began to venture into, to explore, were red and gold and green beneath dust that clung to his fingertips as he brushed them over the shadowy works of art.

It got to the point that, when Hermione disbanded from Potters' gang in the morning, she was more likely to find him in the church than among the clutter of empty bottles the colour of sewer water. Eventually, one of her numerous questions were gifted with an answer that wasn't monosyllabic. "It gives me hope," he croaked in a voice as coarse as gravel, "reminds me of the world when this started."

"This?"

"London. England. Civilisation, I guess. And we're both here now, aren't we? Two civilised people in a world consumed by barbarianism."

"Those are my friends you're insulting. They might be barbaric, a little rough around the edges, but it's thank to them that I'm still alive."

He was stung by her blatant dismissal of whatever it was he provided to her. "It's thanks to you that I'm in one piece right now."

"Why did you stop drinking, Draco?"

He ran his fingertips over the wings in the stained glass window, still in one piece. The hotel windows had never been smashed because nobody cared enough to bother. The church was untouched for the opposite reason: it had been left as a monument to the world as it _had_ been, as it was before. It was a civilised myth left where its' stone walls would protect it from the brutality of nature. "I realised something. I worked out that it doesn't matter what I do with my time; the world won't care if I kill myself; it will only ever look on as I waste away. it isn't going to stop spinning because anyone had a breakdown, least of all me."

"So you're saying..."

"I realised that the world keeps spinning around, even once chaos is everywhere. And that, with people like you around, is a good thing. It gave - gives - me hope. So I began again."


	2. Round 2: (ARTS) Meadows of Heaven

**Challenges:** **S**omebody aka Me's _The Hunger Games: Fanfic Style Competition (round 3)_ on HPFC  
><strong>C<strong>Utopia's _Duelling Club Competition (Arts, round 2)_ on HPFC  
><strong>b<strong>utterflygirly99's _Prompts Mania Challenge _on HPFC  
><strong>D<strong>obbyRocksSocks' _Harry Potter Chapter Competition_ on HPFC  
><strong>S<strong>creaming Faeries' _Greek Mythology Mega Prompt Challenge_ on HPFC  
><strong>P<strong>hilaria's _85 Shades of AU Competition_ on HPFC

**Characters:** Draco Malfoy, Arthur Weasley, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, Hermione Granger

**Prompts: ****D**ialogue - _"She's not going to be happy about that."_ **/** Character - _Arthur Weasley_ **/** Pairing - _Dean/Seamus_ **/** Setting - _Dragon Reserve in Romania_ **/** Weapon - _Fire_ **/** Genre - _Sci-fi_.  
><strong>M<strong>eadows of Heaven (Nightwish).  
><strong>Maniac: S<strong>ongs 1 - _Chandelier (Sia) **/** _Songs 3 - _Rolling in the Deep (Adele)_ **/ **Colors 18 - _Ivory_ **/** Colors 19 - _Ash_ **/** Dialogue 3 - _"Come on, just a little smile."_ **/** Dialogue 9 - _"Don't be so stuck up."_ **/** Random 7 - _Ice_ **/** Random 14 - _Perfect_.  
><strong>H<strong>arry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, chapter 24 - Occlumency: _write about learning something important_.  
><strong>9. H<strong>ermes: _Write about somewhere other than Great Britain.  
><em>**3.** **F**uture, 68. Realism, 79. Technological

**Word Count: **2,308

**A/N: **In this fic, Dean and Seamus technically provide a 'mother's care'. I did originally have a completely different idea involving a child, lost too young, but I wanted to use this for the Hunger Games Competition as well. So here's this.  
>Anything in brackets is something I probably could have cut, in most cases, but wanted to leave in to give you some extra information.<br>_Chandelier_ was a large part of the inspiration for Arthur's perceived self-destructive actions, and also partially goes towards the reasoning as to why Draco fled the UK (For Draco, _"Can't feel anything, when will I learn? / I push it down, push it down"_, and for Arthur, _"__Throw 'em back 'til I lose count / ... / I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist"_. No, I didn't use the implications of suicide evident throughout the lyrics. I might do something using them later, though, it's kind of appropriate for a one-shot I've had in mind for ages.  
><em>Rolling in the Deep<em> refers more to Draco's self-desctruction, or plans for such a thing, in relation to his memories of a relationship that's been dismissed. Specifically, "_The scars of your love remind me of us / They keep me thinking that we almost had it all / The scars of your love, they keep me breathless._"

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><p><em>I fall asleep and see it all<br>Mother's care and colour of the kites_

**_Meadows __of_**_** Heaven** - Nightwish__  
><em>

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><p>The Dragons' Breath Bar didn't really sell much in the way of alcohol, except for the Ţuică that was pretty much obligatory on the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. <em>It's not even a real bar<em>, Draco thought cynically, and he had a point. The so-called Bar was just an ash-coloured tent woven through with fire resistance nanites.

The makeshift ale was proving to be very difficult to actually get drunk on sold - and only partially because of the focus implant he had had installed to keep his mind from wandering aimlessly.

(An action he regretted very much right now, not that he was about to admit it aloud.)

Mostly the difficulty in achieving blissful inebriation was due to the fact that the barkeep watered it down. Couldn't risk the dragon experts getting wasted, after all; and besides, dragon fire would kill a man full of alcohol sooner than it'd do the same to his sober counterpart.

(That was the theory. For some reason, no one was willing to test it.)

Apparently, though, drunkenness could be achieved with dedication. The aging Arthur Weasley, with his wisps of vivid red hair still clinging to the top of his head, had been there for longer than the place had been open to the people actually employed at the Sanctuary. Worse, he was an honest, over-emotional drunk: the old man kept throwing himself at unsuspecting customers.

Draco, hidden away in the safety of a shadowy corner booth, was safe from these administrations. And that was one hundred per cent _fine_ with him. Maybe the official papers said he was in Romania on Malfoy Industries business, but really, he was there to brood. Everyone knew it.

(His not admitting it was practically evidence to everyone else, just fuel to the rumours that Draco was running from the unfamiliar burden of commitment.)

"Malfoy! Have you seen Seamus?"

The blonde merely peered at the man who was yelling at him, even if it was by necessity. With dark skin, darker hair and being abnormally tall, Dean Thomas was obviously of African descent, and God, could he yell. ( Not that the bar was quiet enough for anything else to be heard.) His neck looked stretched, more so when he slept, which Draco did not know by choice. There weren't enough tents set up around camp, so the CEO of Malfoy Industries had opted to take the free bed with the resident gays, rather than force some stranger to abandon their makeshift home. Especially since it was supposed to get cold out, snow and ice everywhere.

(That didn't mean he was being honest when he said that it didn't have anything to do with the fact that he wasn't comfortable around strangers anymore.)

"I'm not your boyfriends' minder, Thomas."

The African rolled his eyes; Draco always behaved as though he was superior to everyone around him. He knew, though, that he was just as good in his field as the CEO was in his. That was how he'd ended up getting commissioned by the so-called 'pure-blood': a ridiculous sentiment, since they were both fully qualified graduates from the best institute in the United Kingdom. Dean knew just as much about what many less-educated people called 'magic' as the CEO did: that it was due to the ability of some people to manipulate microscopic nanites that miracles were accomplished, from flame resistance weaving - like that applied to the tent that housed the Dragon's Breath Bar - to medications that could induce a coma. That Dean had elected to focus on creating art and not making money, was a testament to his character.

That he had followed Seamus Finnigan to Romania to study the destructive abilities of dragons was another point he could be respected for. Dean prided himself on his ability to support everyone he came across: he would not deny anyone something they wanted, and would go out of his way to provide it. Though his mother had originally been horrified that he was moving to live on a reserve dedicated to the study of extremely dangerous creatures with a proven disaster magnet, it had been obvious he intended to go with Seamus, with or without her approval. "I can take my art supplies," he'd said, and that was all he needed to be happy.

(Well, as long as Seamus was at his side.)

Taking all that into consideration, it really shouldn't have surprised Draco when the artist welcomed him with open arms. They'd been on opposite sides of the ridiculous so-called 'war' in school, each of them loyal to those who shared their house banner. After their reunion, Draco came to rather respect the other man, if only for his integrity and loyalty. It took longer for him to warm up to Seamus.

Seamus, speak of the devil, chose that exact moment to put in an appearance. His actual look was not surprising: his eyebrows, formerly sandy to match his hair, had been burned off recently (_again_), his clothing darkened by soot and burned in more places than one. Dean clucked his tongue at this, clapping the Irishman on the shoulder. "It was the Common Welsh Green, right, not the Longhorn? Because last time they were almost out of the antivenom nanites and I really doubt that -"

"No, Dean, it's wasn't venomous. Relax. Come on, just a little smile." Laughing, the newcomer stood on his toes to reach his boyfriends' ear, murmuring something else in his thick Irish slur before kissing his cheek and grinning. Draco looked away. _Bloody couples_, he cursed mentally, draining what remained of the local swill to avoid watching yet another perfect 'happily ever after' in action. "

(If he loathed them for the things they managed to win before him, maybe he could manage to convince himself that it really wasn't his fault, what he'd been deprived of.)

The couple, now laughing at some private joke that the businessman would never understand, fell into the booth across from him. A part of him resented both of them, for the value of the relationship they shared, and for the world rubbing it in his face that _he_ had been denied that happiness. "Best choice I ever made," he muttered unenthusiastically. His roommates both glanced at him, their pity obvious in their gaze. He resented them for that, too.

(They didn't take it personally: they knew he was lying to himself. It was them, after all, that helped him to forget his nightmares when he woke them both at the crack of dawn, gasping and twisting himself up in the sleeping bag he'd brought with him, contorting his body into unnatural positions. Dean did it out of kindness. Seamus did it out of dedication to Dean.)

Draco's own personal idea of hell joined them then, weeping as he tripped into the booth alongside Draco, forcing the younger man up against the canvas wall of the tent. He glared at the old drunk, irritated by the achievement. He wanted privacy, and while he owed the couple some respect, the old Weasley had earned no such favour; he opened his mouth to say exactly that.

"Malfoy! I invited Mister Weasley over. He's a bit cut up."

"I hadn't noticed," Draco spat sarcastically.

"Oh, don't be so stuck up. Talking to him ought to humble you a bit. And trust me, you could use some humbling."

"Seamus!"

"It's fine, Dean," the drunk muttered. With his speech slurred, he was barely coherent. The waterworks certainly weren't helping him at all. "Seamus's got a point. Malfoys' isn't humble ish."

"Aside from that being completely grammatically incorrect, Weasley, I don't need your critique of my life. It's not like you're a particularly admirable model. How long have you been here, drowning your sorrows in second-rate alcohol?"

"Since the sun came up. Couldn't sleep."

"How nice for you."

"You get that cynicism from your father, Malfoy. He always was a cold one."

"I have no illusions regarding the identity of my father. I do, however, suggest that you cease the commentary on things you cannot hope to understand before it gets you into trouble."

"_Malfoy_," Dean groaned, nudging Seamus sharply in the ribs. The Irishman shot out of his seat, extending a hand to help his boyfriend up. "Arthur lost his wife recently. He needs comfort, not what you're doing."

"Don't -"

"Seamus and I are leaving. You stay here and talk to Arthur. I want you to set him straight. Understand?"

"I don't see how this should be my problem. Doesn't his son work here, or something?"

"Charlie's off somewhere, a contract in America," Seamus cut in, "but if you don't think you'll be any good - even though Hermione -"

"Shut up, Finnigan. I'll set your damned alcoholic straight - but don't you _dare_ finish that statement, unless you want to be gutted in your sleep."

Dean rolled his eyes again, pulling Seamus away. This left the drunken widower alone with the anti-social company that headed Malfoy Industries, the two men in complete silence. It wasn't until Arthur moved to take another messy mouthful from his bottle that Draco deigned to acknowledge his presence, snatching it away.

"Hey!"

"Absolutely not. You already look pathetic enough."

"And you don't?"

"That's different." (It wasn't.)

Arthur scoffed, but to Draco it looked more like the involuntary gagging that preceded a mess of vomit. The younger man scooted further away, his back pressing into the canvas. He would _not_ let this wreck of a man taint him. "You don't even know what I'm going through. You don't care."

"I don't, that's true. There's no reason I should ever _care_ about the likes of _you_."

"You cared about 'Er-my-nee."

"That's different."

"Liar," he scoffed again. He didn't seem to care that everything he knew of Draco insisted that he was more likely to hit him than he was to be civil. Fortunately for him, Seamus' dare and Deans' trust was foremost in the mind of the young man. Dreading the outcome, Draco resisted the urge to moan aloud.

"Explain."

"'Scuse me?"

"What you're going through, old man. What could you be experiencing that's made you so pathetic?"

"Loss." (Draco thought that was quite obvious, but Arthur wasn't done.) "Pain. It's like some awful thing's gone and torn out my stomach."

Draco's expression must have hinted at his disgust, because the old man laughed at him, his breath reeking of booze. "Oh, hush up, boy, I know more about these things than you. I've got enough kids to make a Quidditch team, and me 'nd Molly were happy for years and years."

"But now you're in pain. It's not worth it."

"Sure, I hurt a bit. But that's nothing. It's a freckle in the scheme of things. It's not gonna take away the pride of looking at my first son, or my little girl, or any of the others. It's not going to change the fact that I married for happiness. It's certainly not going to make things any different."

Draco stared, incredulous. "I don't understand. You said you're in pain."

"But she isn't, not any more. And I'll work out how to contain it all sooner or later."

"She's not going to be happy about that."

Arthur smiled thinly at Draco, and it was obvious that he pitied the young man for his cluelessness when it came to how humans worked. "Look, Draco, you're a Malfoy. But even you have to know that she's dead and gone, and the best thing I can do for her is honour her memory by staying strong. For our kids."

"We never had kids. She'd never want -"

"You took off in the dead of night, didn't you? You didn't want to disappoint her by becoming something she doesn't want. I think you give her too little credit."

"No," Draco murmured, annoyed that the old man had gotten him to think.

(The problem was the opposite: he gave her _too much_ credit, after what had happened.)

"She's never been the sort to let something bad happen to her."

And so it was that Draco stared at Arthur Weasley, coming to his senses for the first time in weeks. _She hadn't told anyone else what had happened with the ex. _He knew it was time to take responsibility.

(He could only hope he wasn't too late.)

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><p>Draco had always remembered the dreams that jerked him awake. He thought Romania had stopped them, but he was wrong. The Sanctuary had merely introduced him to people who actually cared about his welfare, something he'd never really been subjected to before. In the dreams, he watched her stride down the aisle, her hair straightened unnaturally, on the arm of her wrinkled father, inexplicably clad in a lab coat the same shade of ivory as her gown.<p>

The screaming was triggered when he saw the groom who awaited her at the end of the aisle: always _him_. Always the man she'd dated for a short while back in fourth year, always the possessive cretin, always the abusive arrogance of the foreigner. She'd confided in him once that a part of her feared him, though she knew it was irrational.

(She could always hold her own against anything, everything, and anyone. It was part of what drew him to her.)

When he left England for work in Romania, he did it because it was right for her. He did it because she needed the chance to be truly free.

When he went back, he didn't expect her to be in his house. He didn't expect her to throw herself at him. He didn't expect her to admit to having dreams where he joined her again, or to having nightmares where he left.

He didn't expect her to care.

(But of course she did. Surprising him was what she did best.)


End file.
